Unsettled.
The words wouldn’t leave his head.
He had spent years watching her, and in all that time, she had only spoken in fleeting whispers within his visions. Yet last night, standing in his doorway, she had spoken aloud.
He had thought himself prepared. Thought he had become numb to her presence, her watching, her silence. But when that voice—low, rasping, unnatural—broke the stillness, his blood had run cold.
It wasn’t fear in the way he had once felt it, not the terror of being alone in the dark, waiting for her to move. It was something else. Something deep, like an instinct screaming at him that whatever stood before him was not meant to be.
And yet, the worst part was how quickly the feeling faded.
How, even as he lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, he wasn’t shaking. He wasn’t cowering beneath the covers or desperately praying for protection.
No. He simply listened to the silence and wondered why.
Why now? Why speak? Why him?
The questions clung to him like shadows, following him through the morning as he moved through the halls of the church.
“Harry.”
Sister Maria’s voice snapped him back to the present. He blinked, realizing he had stopped in the middle of the hallway.
She frowned. “You’re distracted.”
He forced a small, tired smile. “Just tired.”
Her gaze softened. “Nightmares?”
It was an easy excuse. One she would accept without question.
He hesitated—just for a moment—before nodding. “Something like that.”
She reached out, squeezing his shoulder gently. “You know you can always talk to me, dear.”
The words were warm. Comforting. And yet, Harry knew he never would.
What could he possibly say?
"I keep seeing something that shouldn't exist."
"She has followed me since I was a child, and last night, she finally spoke."
"I don’t think I’m scared anymore, and that terrifies me more than anything."
So instead, he just nodded again, letting Sister Maria’s kindness wash over him like sunlight through stained glass.
She gave him a final pat on the shoulder before walking away.
Harry exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair.
His fingers brushed against something cold in his pocket.
Rosary beads.
His hand clenched around them for a moment before he let go, shoving them deeper into his robes.
No, he wasn’t afraid.
But he should be.